


There is a Cure (For Us)

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Other, Pre-The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, Strong Language, gender neutral reader, this is the third time i've tried to upload this but servers were down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 00:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14659191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: Following the end of the war, a number of Scoia'tel commanders are sentenced to death at the hands of their enemies, betrayed by their allies. Iorveth is one of only two who manage to escape.





	There is a Cure (For Us)

**Author's Note:**

> tw for blood, violence  
> \---  
> shoutout to Elster, OutcastOne, and Tenshikyo for commenting on Enough and inspiring another iorveth and reader fic :^) thanks loves <3
> 
> title is partly inspired by "There is a Cure" by Timber Timbre

“Where are you taking me? I swear, if it’s to some halfway house riddled by  _ bloedhe dh’oine _ \--”

“Iorveth, quiet.”

You readjust your grip around his slack, broad shoulders and try to ignore the way blood starts to drip from his pointed chin. The elf pays no mind to his wound, but for an entirely different matter: he refuses to acknowledge that he’d suffered betrayal at the hands of the same Nilfgaardians he’d allied with. Kicked out of the empire’s armies and thrown to the Northern Kingdoms like scraps to a hound.

When you’d stumbled across his delirious person, Iorveth was howling and damning their so-called Treaty of Cintra, the one that ended the war and the lives of his fellow Scoia’tel brethren. He was barefoot and wearing prison garbs without a trace of the crafty elven rebel in his battered appearance.

Escape from a sentenced death had not been an easy feat. The stitches on the right side of his face were ripped open once more despite your earlier attempts to bandage them. It’d been less than a month before he wound up in your arms again, bleeding and cursing profusely in the same breath. 

You’d thrown your coat over his shoulders, wrapped his feet in old gauze that found a new purpose, and hauled him to the road. Destiny demanded that you were only a few miles from a safe house that you attended often. The exhaustion finally catches up with Iorveth around late evening, and you find an inkling of relief that he can’t struggle against your attempts to help him. His barbed tongue does not fail to pierce the silence as the two of you stagger towards--

“Where are you taking me?” Iorveth’s one green eye flicks up to you.

“Somewhere safe for non-humans,” you reply, gritting your teeth. “And somewhere you won’t be questioned for your allegiances. As long as--”

“--you don’t talk about the war, or who you fought for,” Iorveth finishes bitterly, and spits to the side. “Fucking non-partisans.”

“It’s the only way to make sure that no one starts a fight. Just refrain from talking, and we’ll be fine.” You have little supplies at hand, and you know that this safe house is the best bet for Iorveth and his current condition. While he’s more accustomed to being treated in the middle of a forest, the Scoia’tel elf treats the very sight of civilization with disdain.

Introductions are, fortunately, smooth and brief. The halflings in charge of the halfway house recognize you on sight, and quickly usher Iorveth into one of the upper level rooms. You glance around and see other non-humans like gnomes and dwarves recovering from the last dregs of the war, too. Not all who pass by are in need of medical aid; some merely have a meal, or a chance to breathe without the Northern Kingdom breathing down their necks.

You drag Iorveth up the stairs, one step at a time. At the sight of the cot, it seems like all of his energy dissipates and he almost doesn’t make it to the bed when he collapses. No time for you to rest-- you brush your hair back, roll up your sleeves, and get to work.

Iorveth had several contusions from being shackled by Northern soldiers and his consequent escape. As you remove his dirty white shirt, you notice lacerations around his wrists. You guess that he’d been shackled with dimeritium-grade cuffs, given the distinct bruising pattern. You also try not to flinch at the long streaks of dark red against his tattooed, olive skin. Iorveth made no mention of being whipped, but the cruelness of captors does not go unmarked.

About an hour and two buckets of bloodstained rags later, Iorveth slowly wakes.

The first thing he does is reach up and find the right side of his face securely bandaged. The linen is clean and staunches the bleeding; it’s more than adequate treatment in this hellscape. Iorveth sighs, and lolls his head to the side. He stares with his one green eye, hazily recognizing your figure by a washbasin.

“What’s the damage?” he croaks.

You dry your hands. “Your eye,” as it usually begins, “needed to be treated again. Your cheek was cut badly. You’ve cuts on your sides, and bruises on your wrists and ribs. The left ankle looks sprained. Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

One of the homeowners had stopped by with supplies and a tray of bread and soup. You pour a cup of the thin broth and go over to the bedridden elf, helping him slowly siph. The sickly gray color has fled from his face. Now, he looks just like himself, albeit torn at the edges.

You brush his fine black hair out of his face. He gazes up at you. Delirium, or something like awe fills his eyes.  “What of the  _ pherians _ ?”

“The halflings? They do not question your presence here. It’s thanks to them that you may rest in comfort. And security,” you add, and this seems to settle the last of his wired nerves. You set the cup aside and pick up his right wrist, massaging the bruise carefully but firmly so that the skin could heal faster. “When day breaks, I’ll ask them if they can spare the manger in the barn. Hot water will ease the stiffness.”

You thought Iorveth would be indignant at the thought of bathing in feeding trough. He merely grimaces and asks instead, “Familiar with the place?”

“You’re not the first non-human that I’ve treated in recent times,” you reply. “And this is a good place, with honest people. Even if they do not take sides in the war.”

As if summoned, there is a sharp knock at the door and it opens to reveal one of the halflings. Iorveth half-rises in alarm, but you set a hand on his shoulder. Their face is pale, and their beige smock is spattered with blood. “There’s a boy with a shattered leg,” the halfling stammers. “And a whole group that-- well, could you--”

“I’ll be downstairs right away.”

The one-eyed elf fumbles for your slipping grasp. All of his bluster is gone. “Don’t leave--”

“Iorveth, I must.”

“But--”

“Here.” You take his hand and gently curl his fingers over the silver butter knife that came with the tray and food. “It’s not much but it will have to do for now. If you need anything,” you say softly as you rest your palm on his unhurt cheek, “I will be only downstairs.”

The elf lies in bed slightly dumbfounded, and he turns the blunt knife over in his nimble fingers. It made sense that your first attempt to reassure him was with a means of defending himself. True, he’d relinquished all of his belongings to the Nordlings. Did it really seem so obvious that he’d craved reassurance-- and that the answer could be in semblance of a weapon? His gaze slowly tracks down the cracked ceiling to the closed door. Iorveth sighs, and closes his eye.

When he wakes next, the right side of his face feels wet and sticky.

Mouth dry and head throbbing, Iorveth nearly knocks over a pitcher as he clumsily reaches for a cup of water. The candles on the nearby writing desk have melted beyond half of their tallow; there is simply no way to tell how much time has passed. Thankfully, Iorveth has only a few minutes to consider hobbling downstairs when you finally return.

You see Iorveth peer curiously in the dim candlelight, and at the sight of his bloody bandages, you start to disinfect your hands in the basin. You have him slowly sit up and swing his legs over the side. Iorveth winces as the mottled bruises on his chest sear with a dull, burning pain. It’s not easy to breathe, so your hands work quickly skilled and practiced.

“A traveling caravan had injured a family. Broken wheel crushed a boy’s leg. Others were injured. Needed to dress a few wounds, make a splint here and there. But a friend of mine arrived not too long ago. He’ll be able to take care of the rest of the patients.”

Your voice distracts from the aches, but it is hoarse, like you’d been talking for hours.

“A friend?” he wheezes.

“Another halfling. Stubborn as a tick. Well-versed in war.” Your eyes flick up to him. “He treats everyone who comes across his field in need of medical aid. Friends and foes alike.”

“What a luxury.”

“It doesn’t come without misunderstandings.” You staunch the bleeding with a firm press, and Iorveth can’t help but reflexively grab your wrist. He lets loose a low, feral sound of pain. You’re thrown back to the myth of a soldier who placed his hand in the mouth of an ashen-gray wolf. Iorveth’s nails are like teeth digging into the flesh, not yet breaking the skin. Harmless unless he finds reason to bite.

Slowly, slowly, he relaxes.

The vise-like grip becomes as light as a feather, skimming across your wrist and the fading crescent-shaped impressions. Then his fingers seek further, up your forearm and elbow, then down to your waist. Before you know it, Iorveth pulls you towards him. Head pressed against your abdomen, Iorveth’s lips press tight lest he says something he’ll regret later. Silently, and desperately seeking comfort that fails to exist in a silver butter knife.

You keep the steady pressure on his wound, but with your free hand, carefully card through his soft black hair. The elf shivers under your touch. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, “I know that it hurts.”

_ Which part? _ Iorveth would snarl, if he had any energy or conviction left in his black-and-blue bruised body.  _ The cuts, the lashes, or the punches to the ribs? Or the betrayal, the death of the other commanders, or this twisting gut feeling of being alive?  _ He’s not unfamiliar with the feeling of loss. The Scoia’tel are scripted to always be at a disadvantage in the struggle for power and place. Iorveth finds his strength in contempt, so he clings to you and closes his eye, and he hates the pain.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos if you've read the books and can guess who the mentioned halfling medic is


End file.
